Despite its coyly lascivious full name — the Big Red Cock — BRC Gastropub should have everything going for it.

The smallish bar and restaurant on the fashionable Shepherd/Washington axis fills up to bursting by a little after 6 p.m. each night. There's almost always a wait for patrons drawn by the extensive list of craft beers on tap, the moderate prices and the gold dust conferred by two of the partners, chef Lance Fegen and beverage whiz Shepard Ross of the popular Glass Wall.

Their designated executive chef, Jeff Axline, has put in time at the well-regarded restaurant at The Houstonian. The kitchen stays open late, which draws in a restaurant-industry crowd and amplifies the buzz.

So why have three of my four visits to BRC been disappointing to the point of dismal? Chalk it up to infernal noise levels, a diabolical seating protocol and food that is too often sloppily executed, ill-conceived or flat-out unpleasant to look at. When you call yourself a gastropub, alluding to the British movement that aimed to bring some culinary sophistication to pub grub, you'd better deliver on the gastronomic front lest the label look hollow.

What to say - besides no, thank you - of BRC's putative pimento cheese dip that's a runny splodge of lumpy pinkness on a white plate, with its advertised Vermont cheddar utterly defeated by great gouts of mayonnaise? And why go to the trouble of charring pimento if you puree it so finely it manifests only as a wan, pink-orange tint?

Putting the dip in a ramekin would help. So would actually producing the house-made potato chips that are billed as accompaniments to the dish. One night they were crisp and thin and gorgeously bronzed, the best thing on the plate. The next time I ordered the pimento cheese (just to see if the first was a fluke), it arrived with oversalted tortilla chips to use as scoops. Snake eyes.

I had to wonder who thought a promising chicken-fried-steak sandwich, made with flattened tenderloin crusted in crunchy bits of potato chip, would look appetizing slapped on a round white bun, completely blanketed with dead-white gravy and deposited in a white bowl? "They need a girl in that kitchen," joked my companion, as we unearthed a layer of caramelized onion tucked under the meat, kibitzing about how we'd put that on top and leave a little of the crust uncovered by gravy. We also decided we'd actually add some of the alleged pepper to said gravy, although we did approve of its smoky undertow of bacon grease.

I wondered, too, why the kitchen feels so compelled to add sweet syrups to otherwise palatable fried dishes. Dr Pepper Fried San Antonio Quail emerged with a "Kentucky-fried" crust so sturdy that beneath it the delicacy of quail meat came to naught. Ribbons of sweet Dr Pepper syrup gave the dish a candied effect. Only the central heap of blue-cheese potato salad saved the day: I shoved the fried stuff to the side and gobbled as much potato salad as I could. It was the highlight of my evening.

Crunchy little fried boudin balls on another night were my favorite appetizer here, their bed of minced-up house-made dill pickle relish picked up the earthy flavors. But why turn a satisfyingly savory dish sweet with rivulets of hot-pepper syrup? Has the Houston palate strayed that far into the realm of sugar? Can we really leave no savory dish alone?

At least the soft-centered crab beignets (far better than their cousins over at RDG) came without sweetening of any kind. Too bad their Old Bay mayonnaise dip was so strident it overmatched the gentle beignets.

Far more successful were stout logs of battered and fried cod, the fish fresh and sweet and a bit minerally under a gold crust that was curiously unseasoned. With a sprinkle of salt, a dip into sides of pale-ale vinegar or feisty tartar sauce, this was fish and chips done almost right.

Too bad the fresh-cut, skinny french fries involved lack verve and texture, reverting to an inert state as soon as they started to lose heat. That's happened to me twice here. The fries look so fetching in their little mini metal frying basket that it pains me not to love them.

A seared skirt-steak and room-temperature sliced tomato salad sounded like just the thing for summer, but a pale-ale vinegar dressing and Maytag blue cheese couldn't compensate for hard, tasteless tomatoes and steak (ordered rare) that was near-raw and chewy to boot. A so-called State Fair Griddled Cheese Sandwich turned out to have lots of pulled shortrib, a bit of cheese frizzled right into the bread, and a slice of tomato that did little to bump up the flavors. I kept wishing they had tucked one of their house-made dill pickles in to add some interest. But those will cost you $5.50 for a squat mason jarful.

So what to order here, if your friends want to meet at BRC ­- and you know, eventually, they will. The house-ground bacon cheeseburger is exemplary, with its expansive beef flavor and good-quality bacon. If you can't resist stunt food, you can even order said burger chopped up — bread and all — and thrown on top of a green salad dressed with cheddar ranch and tossed (so help me) with french fries.

It's called a Burger Bowl, and (with the exception of those quickly sogged-out fries) it's less of a mess than you might expect. It's even sort of fun to eat, in a nutty way.

That's the hopeful metaphor I'd like to think BRC will live up to one day. Already they pour some soul-stirring beers from their taps: Ommegang Hennepin Farmhouse Saison; New Belgium Ranger IPA; exotic seasonals from the folks at Dogfish. They don't always have everything on their list (they were out of my two first-choice brews from Lagunitas and Bear Republic the other evening), but it's nothing a little more strenuous updating wouldn't fix.

I wish they'd fix the seating conundrum while they're at it. Those big leathery booths are reserved for parties of 6 or more, and they take up a good chunk of the restaurant - which means parties of two or four must spend much time cooling their heels (and racking up tabs) in the bar. There's a long communal table that might provide some relief - except when it's not a communal table, and it's reserved for another of those prized large parties.

Honestly, I don't know what restaurants hope to gain with such seating policies and allocation of precious floorspace. It reminds me of the bad old days when you could barely squeeze into Max's Wine Dive, back when Jonathan Jones was superintending the stoves and those big booths were the most coveted spots in town.

There's just one difference. Max's food back then actually deserved the gastropub designation. BRC's has miles to go.